


Stay With Me

by firedew



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Flashbacks, Language, Murder, Near Death, On the Run, Physical Abuse, Prison, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firedew/pseuds/firedew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When did it all change? When did this become her path? As Sansa tore the last towel from the rack, it seemed it had all happened in an instant. This wasn't the beginning of their story. She prayed it wouldn't be the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to kickstand75 for lending me her critical eye. Her input was invaluable. Cover art by my husband (affectionately known as Mr. Firedew).

 

 

**July 12, 2014**

 

When did it all change?

When did this become her path?

When did she give up dresses, plastic pink bracelets, and a crown of red hair for a tank top and jeans, a tattoo of a bird on her hip, and hair dyed the dullest brown?

As Sansa tore the last towel from the rack, it seemed it had all happened in an instant. She had traded family for none, many for one. She crossed the bathroom, covered in dingy white tile, and all she could think was that she’d traded smiles and flutters from a handsome face for someone who’d left drops of blood like rose petals on the ground.

“Little bird …” Sandor languished in the bathtub, gripping his leg tight as blood poured through his fingers. The other towel, already soaked through, was wedged uselessly near his foot. She moved his hand and quickly pressed the soft cotton to his wound. “Fuck!” he shouted through his teeth.

"Hold on,” she said shaking, her eyes growing hot. “You just have to hold on a little longer. Help is coming.”

“Stupid girl. You shouldn’t have …” He let out a stilted groan. His right hand slammed down on top of hers and steel grey eyes met hers. “They know I’m wounded, little bird,” he said between agonized breaths. “Gunshot wounds are reported. They’ll be watching the hospitals. Watching for me.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

His other hand shot out and latched onto her shirt. He yanked her forward, practically pulling her on top of him. Sansa scrambled against the side of the tub, desperate to keep the towel in place. “Now, you listen to me, girl. You’re going to stop this nonsense. Grab your shit and get the fuck out of this ratbag motel like a proper little lady.”

Sansa wiggled in his grasp, alarmed at how pale he was. “Sandor, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

He gave a hollow chuckle and his fingers loosened, whether he meant to release her or not. He was sweaty. His eyes couldn’t seem to stay focused on her. “I’m already dead, little bird. If you had any sense in that stubborn skull of yours, you’d see what’s in front of you.”

Sansa righted herself and immediately doubled the pressure. A litany of curses poured from his mouth. His body shook, harder than hers, though she could scarcely believe it possible. She was trembling so badly she thought she would break into a thousand pieces. 

“I’m not leaving without you.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks. She was sure her hands would be permanently stained red with his blood, but she couldn’t let go. “Stop trying to scare me away. It won’t work.”

“Oh, aye,” he murmured, his head morosely listing against the wall. “Never did, did it? Fool girl. Should’ve gutted you instead of taking you with me.” His scarred cheek twitched, his features bent in equal parts rage and anguish. “The dead don’t feel. Might’ve been better for you that way. But I’ll wager you’d have been pretty even then. Ned Stark’s girl, beautiful to the last. Would’ve followed after you anyway, gods damn me.”

Sansa blinked through her tears. When had the horrible things he said ceased to shock her? When had his harsh words become caresses? Had it been the first time he touched her, a great hand to her shoulder when she was lost, asking her if he frightened her? Or had it been later, after her first beating as he put ice to her broken lip, telling her to just give Joffrey what he wanted?

Or was it the deep, rasping whispers in her ear tripping quietly off his tongue as he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt and gently contacted her skin. His words were vulgar intimations of all he wanted to do to her, filthy and rough, the kind that made her think of how animals must be when they come together. But his touches were tender, promising pleasure not pain. Sharing. A connection without bruises.

She’d given in and he’d given all. From that night had her life ever been the same?   

“Go, little bird. While … while you still have a chance.”

Sansa shook her head. She wasn’t going anywhere. He was being hunted by the Lannisters and his brother and everyone who hated him for his association with both. She was wanted for murder, a fugitive bought and paid for as far as the police were concerned and a target for the Lannisters’ personal vengeance for their son. She wouldn’t get far without him. His death was her death. He understood that better than she, yet he persisted in a futile argument as his life slowly seeped down the drain.

His eyes closed and, frightened, she called out to him. “Sandor, stay with me.” He didn’t move, and she roughly pushed his damp black hair away from his face. “Sandor!”

He startled and then his eyelids fluttered. A fleeting glimpse of black and grey became a dazed, roving look as he fought to remain conscious.

She prayed for sirens. She didn’t care if she went to prison for a crime she didn’t commit or if the Lannisters had her killed in custody, _please, please, please, just let him live._ After all he had done for her, for the side of him that he’d let her see, that was the least she could do for him.

“Do you know …" he said slowly, "... the only thing that ever made me happy, little bird?” 

Tears sped down her cheeks. “No.”

He took a long shuddering breath. “You. You … and your thrice damned chirping. Seven hells. Should’ve taken you for mine … a long time ago. From the first.”

Sansa closed her eyes and nodded. From the beginning. Maybe she hadn’t changed so much as become as she was meant to be. This was always their destiny, to live and die together.  

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips. He made a sound to melt her insides. Her heart turning to ash, she opened her mouth to steal one more. “I’m yours, Sandor, and you’re mine,” she whispered. “Just stay with me.”

His chest rose and fell in heavy pants, and his eyes drifted shut once more.

Outside, sirens wailed.

Inside, Sansa held on and prayed.


	2. Sansa

_"You’re getting too thin. You need to eat more.”_

_Comfortably installed behind her as she lay on her side, Sandor’s fingers stroked lazily along the angle of her hip as Sansa stared out at the latest in a series of trashy motel rooms. Blue carpet, plaid curtains, the smell of old cigarettes. Nothing memorable, except his touch igniting fresh tendrils of sensation through her bare skin._

_Months of skipping from one town to the next, living off fast food and gas station fare, had strangled her appetite to the point where eating had become a chore. She hardly remembered what hunger felt like._

_"I thought you liked the way I look,” she said quietly, trying not to sound self-conscious._

_His nose passed near her ear, his deep gaze roaming over her hair and settling on her neck where he nuzzled in close. “You need to keep up your strength. I’ll not have you making yourself sick.” His fingers spread and his massive hand spanned the width of her hip, with room to spare for him to graze her backside. His fingers curled and gently moved up her skin._

_She peered over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to —"_

_“Stop your chirping, little bird." He delved into the curve of her neck, mouth open and eager for a taste. His body moved in with renewed interest, hands roving, his naked arousal pressing up against her. “You’re a fucking knockout.”_

_Warmth pooling sweetly at her center, Sansa opened for him, her neck stretching back, her body arching under his caresses. “Do you mean that?”_

_He picked up his head and steel grey eyes met hers, a moment of sincerity before he pushed her to her back. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. The words, unspoken, slipped between them like a song, though he never sang. Said he had a crap voice. Didn’t believe in himself, though he believed in her. He shouted it every time he touched her, if fingers had a voice. Even after a shower, her hair still felt gritty and the only clothes she owned were dirty and laying haphazardly strewn about the floor, but somehow in his arms she still felt beautiful._

_"Come here,” he growled as he climbed on top of her._

_Sansa spread her legs around him, breathless and ready, clutching him close. He surrounded her, filled her, and she didn’t want to let go._

_“Sandor,” she whispered with tears glistening in her eyes, “Please, don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.”_

_"I'll never leave."_

_"Sandor, please ..."_

Bright lights overhead flooded the room and a voice shouted from down the cellblock.

“Five am, ladies. It’s a new day, and this is your official wake-up call.”

Sansa opened her eyes, another dream shattered, another wish torn to shreds. Sniffling, she sat up, her last memories of him with her in handcuffs as he was loaded into the ambulance.

_“Sandor!” she cried out only to get shoved against the hood of the police unit. Flashing red and blue lights lit up the night and an audience had gathered. The ambulance pulled out of the lot, sirens screaming, and a rough hand pushed her head down as she was ushered inside the car._

“Better get up, Stark,” the guard said outside the bars of her cell. “Breakfast in an hour.”

Sansa waited for her to pass and then slowly knotted back her hair. Sleepy groans and bitching about the hour emerged from other cells like always, and like always, Sansa reminded herself that he was gone. She’d tried her best and it hadn’t been enough.

She was Prisoner #270999 and Sandor Clegane was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to continue this fic. Things you need to know:  
>   
> 1) I have 2 other works going for another fandom at the moment, so I can't promise regular updates. I do not, however, abandon fics. I start a story; I finish it. Sometimes life makes writing difficult (read: next to impossible) and I've never been accused of being a quick writer, anyway. But no matter how long it takes, this story WILL have an ending.  
>   
> 2) This is a GoT fic and, as you might've guessed, not one of the fluffy ones. It's going to be dark and some material probably disturbing. Although I don't plan on depicting a rape in this story, there are going to be several incidents that walk the line of sexual assault and tap dance all over it, as well as severe physical abuse. I've tried to add the appropriate tags, but if I've missed something, please let me know. And I'm happy to discuss points of concern and take constructive criticism. At the end of the day, though, just remember you've been warned. Strap in or don't ride.  
>   
> Thanks!


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear friend, kickstand75, for her beta services. 
> 
> *Possible trigger warning for some serious dubcon activity.*

**March 3, 2015 - Present Day**

 

"You still cry in your sleep." Alayne's legs swung down from the top bunk, blithely kicking back and forth.

Sansa ignored her. She only had a few moments left where she could still hear his voice and feel him on her skin, where she could remember his face in all its gruesome detail and peer once more into his steel grey eyes. As much as he hated fire, his eyes used to burn.

Then, she blinked and he was gone. His memory crumbled into particles of ash and blew away as though they weighed nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

That was all she was now, she reminded herself.

And that was okay, because nothing mattered anymore.

Sansa exhaled and rubbed the remnants of sleep from her eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Alayne asked, swivelling around and poking her head over the edge of the bed. Thick strands of dull brown hair fell across her face like kelp in an oceanless sea.

She was beautiful. Graceful. Sansa hated her for it, though she loved her in equal measure. Sansa used to be graceful, only now she felt wooden inside. She spent her days going through the motions, like a marionette trying to mimic the movements of those around it.

"So serious," Alayne said, with a mischievous frown and a gleam in her eye. There were secrets in there, secrets joyously kept.

Seemingly without cause, Alayne smiled and her face lit up, delicate and free. She reminded Sansa of someone she once knew.

"I didn't mean to bother you," Sansa said quietly.

"No, you never mean to bother anyone, do you? And yet you find yourself here." Alayne's wide gaze roamed the cell. "You are quite the bothersome little thing."

Outside in the dorm, the guards had begun the morning head count. Officer Grisel, a woman whose looks matched her name, stepped inside Sansa's cell, glanced boredly around, and with a click, added a single head to her tally.

The guard moved on to the next cell and Sansa waited for the next to arrive. She wanted to get up and brush her teeth, but prisoners were supposed to remain in place until all the on-duty officers had compared numbers and the count was made official.

It seemed like a waste of time. No one escaped Black Cells Prison. Everyone knew that.

Alayne stayed quiet until the process was finished and the announcement was made. As soon as the loudspeaker cut off, the other prisoners emerged from their cells, all trying to beat each other to the showers. Sansa never joined them. All the hot water was usually gone by the time she got there, but she didn't mind. She was from the North. The cold never bothered her, and the privacy it afforded her was well worth the sacrifice.

"You know you can't avoid them," Alayne said, finally breaking her silence as Sansa finished scrubbing her teeth. "They can hear you as well as I. I told you, you can't keep doing that. They'll use it against you."

Staring blankly ahead, Sansa wiped her mouth. "What's it going to hurt? Dreams aren't worth anything."

"That's not what you used to say."

"I'm not that person anymore." That girl died that night, with no one left to mourn her. Sansa was strangely proud at how little she cared.

Alayne snorted in disbelief and flopped flat out over the mattress. "Part of you is. She's alive and well and keeping me up nights."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Sansa gripped the ledge of the sink. "What do you want from me?" Every day since she'd gotten out of solitary, ever since Alayne had appeared in her cell, Sansa had been asking her that very question and had never received a satisfactory answer.

"Mmm, lemon cakes, I think," Alayne replied, practically licking her lips. "Will you have time to go over to the commissary after breakfast?"

Exasperated, Sansa swiftly turned around and began rummaging through her belongings. "I can't," she said sharply. "I have laundry duty this morning." And she wasn't going to waste what little money she had on one of those mass-produced pastries stuffed with stale cream and wrapped in plastic.

They didn't even use real lemons in them.

Sansa's hands briefly stilled as her taste buds remembered the real thing—cake thinly layered with lemon curd and frosting with mascarpone cheese, the entire thing infused with a sweet lemon syrup. Nothing fake, the portion small because that was all he could afford ...

Why couldn't she hold on to anything real?

Recoiling from the memory, Sansa set out her towel and was almost relieved to find that she was nearly out of shampoo. That was a better use of her money, anyway. Most of the inmates did okay with family and friends on the outside, but cleanliness was the only luxury  _she_ could afford.

Everything else came with a price. A lesson she had learned well.

Her mind didn't seem to care, though, as it tiptoed off in its own direction.

There was an AM/FM radio in the commissary. It wasn't too much, and it would be so nice to be able to listen to music again. Or to have a fan. And lotion. Laundry duty was hell on her hands. The only thing worse was kitchen duty. What would her mother have said if she could see Sansa's hands cracked and red after a shift? What would she have said if she'd known her perfect daughter would wind up in here? Her little brothers were all Sansa had left and she had no idea how they were. She couldn't call them, but maybe if she had some paper … Maybe she could write them a letter?

She could do it for Bran and Rickon. Couldn't she?

It didn't mean anything.

It didn't mean anything.

Sansa glanced up and finally noticed Alayne's horrified gaze, mirrors of blue reflecting back at her.

"Don't," Sansa snapped. "Don't look at me like that." She snatched up her things and clutched them tightly to her chest. "You have no idea, okay? So, stop it! You just …"

Sansa couldn't escape the arrows of disapproval sent along in Alayne's level gaze. They pierced her, sprouting legs like a swarm of insects to skitter and crawl beneath her skin.

"I have to go," she whispered, backing away.

Once outside her cell, she turned on her heels and ran.

 

* * *

 

"There you go, darling." Another laundry bag plopped carelessly into Sansa's arms. The owner, Ygritte—she thought that was her name—all freckles and wild orange hair, looked Sansa up and down with a calculating expression, lingering a little too long on her hair.

"What?" Sansa asked irritably, wanting to move on.

"Oh, nothing." Ygritte put on a wry smirk and fondly patted the bag. "You enjoy that, now."

Right. There wasn't enough dye in the universe, and it still wouldn't do anything about that face.

Sansa continued in her path down the dorm, while Gilly followed behind pushing the laundry cart.

Every cell it was the same. The inmates all had something to say. They thought they were so clever, but Sansa was mostly used to it. Their snide comments never lasted long. A few insults and jokes at her expense and then they lost interest. She had been through far worse, and for all their teasing, they never touched her.

It was rather morbid, in a way. Every time she walked the alley and felt all those eyes turn her way, she got the feeling they were just waiting for the show to start. Joffrey's murder was all over the news. The President's son killed, the prime suspect, a member of another prominent Westerosi family, fleeing before the police could arrive, and the scandal of a valued employee of the victim's family disappearing with her—it was ratings gold. The details of the investigation and her arrest had captivated the country, with Joffrey's poor grieving mother at the epicenter calling for justice. But what the public didn't know was that Cersei Lannister-Baratheon hated Sansa long before her oldest son was killed. Cersei didn't care about a trial or the fact that Sansa hadn't been convicted of anything yet—she was to blame. Cersei's family had money and a long reach, and she wanted vengeance. For the prisoners, a beating meant getting in trouble with the guards and the possibility of catching more prison time. Why risk it all on her?

Sansa Stark was already dead and everyone in the Black Cells knew it. The only question now was when.

"It's about time," shouted an inmate as they finally arrived at the prison laundry. Upon entering, Sansa was hit by a thick wave of heat and the smell of cheap detergent.

"Honestly, how long does it take to gather a bunch of bags and haul your skinny asses down here?" Tongue dripping with disdain, Obara Sand glared at Sansa and Gilly and then dug into the cart for a few bags. Of all the inmates in Sansa's cell block, Obara and her sisters, Nym and Tyene, were probably the most unpleasant of them all. They called them the Sand Snakes. Luckily, Obara was the only one of them on laundry rotation right now.

Exchanging a look of forbearance—especially in light of Gilly's burgeoning belly—Sansa and Gilly pulled a few bags of their own and dumped them out on the counter to be sorted and checked for stains before they were thrown into the wash. There usually were, especially from the prisoners who worked off site. The things Sansa had had to scrub out of people's clothes—everything from sweat stains to Gods know what, and each one smelled worse than the last.

"What are you turning your nose up at, princess?" Obara sniped. She flung out a filthy orange jumpsuit and straightened it with a crisp  _pop_. "Oh, I forgot. You're too good to work with the rest of us, and now you're too good to dirty your hands cleaning our clothes. I'll bet you grew up with your mother at your ear, telling you shit like, 'Proper ladies do not sweat.'"

"That's ridiculous," Sansa muttered. The remark didn't deserve the time of day.

"It's bullshit, that's what it is," Obara said. "You've been inside how long? Eight months? Amazing how I've never seen you on the prison bus with the rest of us."

Sansa didn't respond. She knew what the others thought, but she didn't make the assignments. She'd always just gone where she was told.

 _Eight months?_ she thought belatedly. No, that didn't seem right. Surely, it had been longer. But then, when she thought of her first month here, all there was was black.

"Leave off her, will you? We're all just trying to get by, same as everyone else." Sansa perked up some as Gilly spoke up in her timid manner, but she wanted to tell her not to bother. She wasn't worth the grief.

Obara snorted with derision. "Oh, some of us get by a little differently than the rest. You must be quite talented, princess, for Baelish to keep favoring you as he does."

"Jealous, Obara?" Myranda Royce swept in leading along the next cart with Chataya pushing at the rear. "Perhaps you wish Baelish would look your way one of these days."

Obara made a gagging noise at the idea.

Myranda laughed. "Sansa, you do what you have to, honey. The rest of us will do what we want or envy those that do." She threw a smug grin Obara's way and helped Chataya unload their cart.

As uncomfortable as Sansa was with the conversation, she couldn't help but admire Myranda's confidence. The polar opposite to Chataya's tall, willowy frame and rich dark skin, Myranda was short with curves for days and had no qualms about using them. There were few male guards at the prison and only occasionally were they on the cell blocks, but when the opportunity presented itself, Myranda could be found steaming up one of the storage rooms with Osmund Kettleblack. Rumor had it, her late husband had even died in the act.

Myranda sidled up next to her at the counter. "Just between you and me, Sansa," she said, even though it was hardly just the two of them listening in, "I've always wondered, how little is Littlefinger's little finger? I mean, the name had to come from somewhere."

Obara let out a hateful snicker.

Sansa yanked a standard issue white t-shirt out of her next bag and threw it in her pile, concentrating on her job. "I wouldn't know."

Myranda grinned. "That wouldn't be a blush forming on your sweet cheeks, would it, Sansa? Because surely you've been in the position to see a man's—"

Memories of Sandor drowned out the rest as they skipped and scattered across her memory, brute strength, gasping breaths and a tangle of limbs between the sheets. Sansa abruptly gathered up her first pile of clothes ready for the wash and spun around. "Excuse me."

Moving with the strict discipline of an automaton, she loaded the machine, added detergent, and got it running. She couldn't think about him. Not here. Not now. A small part of her was afraid, if she did, Sandor would somehow hear.

He wouldn't understand.

"Oooh," Myranda murmured, her tone grave although her eyes were teasing. "Perhaps it  _is_  as small as everyone says. Just know, Sansa, if you're not happy with the Baelish situation, I am always ready to step in and help out a friend. You just mention my name to him and I'll do the rest." She winked, however there was no doubt in Sansa's mind that she was completely serious.

So was Sansa. She paused, a flare of anger rushing through her chest. "Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself, then? Don't let me stand in the way."

Myranda looked intrigued. "Really?"

"Be my guest."

Echoes of unwanted kisses slithered over her lips and across her neck, setting her nerves on edge, crackling with fear.

"Stark!"

Sansa spun around, startled. The postures of the other women immediately tensed.

Officer Grisel loomed in the doorway, thumbs tucked in her utility belt and her middle aged jowls set in a permanent frown. "Warden wants to see you," she said.

Across from Sansa, Obara started to laugh. "So much for your attempt at reaching new heights, Royce. Or should I say, hitting new lows? It seems Stark's not quite finished with him yet."

Myranda glared viciously at Obara, who turned her sneer on Sansa. "Go on, princess. Cry to Littlefinger. If you play your cards right, maybe tomorrow you'll be getting breakfast in bed."

As Sansa obediently moved past, Grisel barked back. "Don't need any lip, Sand. Get back to work."

 

* * *

 

"Ms. Stark." Seated at his desk, Petyr Baelish glanced up from his paperwork and greeted her with a smile. "Do come in. You'll forgive me a moment. An inspection this morning turned up a serious leak in the one of the pipes on the eastern block. I need to authorize these repairs before it gets any worse."

Sansa ambled inside, her shoes filled with lead. "Of course, Mr. Baelish," she said in a quiet monotone.

"Please, Sansa." He tilted his head. His voice was pleasant, almost cloying. "I've asked you to call me Petyr."

"Apologies." A tremor in her breath, she gulped past a catch in her throat and forced a polite smile. One of the first lessons her mother had ever instilled in her was to always be polite. "Petyr."

Her arms wrapped around her torso, she took the chair across from him while he returned to his papers. It was soft, cushioned. His entire office shunned the strict utilitarian feel one would expect from the warden of a state prison. His desk was of the finest mahogany with gold-finished, antique hardware, accompanied by his own high-backed leather chair. It was supposed to create an inviting atmosphere. That was the only reason Sansa could think of for having such beautiful things in this austere environment. There was carpet in here, in a place where there wasn't carpet anywhere because carpet was too hard to clean.

Sansa looked around the room, a place she'd been many times now. It reminded her some of her father's office at home in Winterfell. When she was little, her father kept crayons in one of the drawers, and she would crawl into his lap and draw while he worked. As far back as she remember, her mother's picture had always been there on his desk, smiling back at her, a candid photo of her as a young woman with eyes only for the man behind the camera. In later years others joined it, but Sansa's favorite was one with entire family - Sansa and her mother both mortified and trying to smile for the camera while Robb had Arya in a headlock, baby Rickon had toddled nearly out of the frame, Bran lying prostrate on the ground, tired of trying to get this stupid family picture taken, and her father watching it all with a quiet smirk on his face. Of all the shots the photographer had taken, Catelyn Stark had never understood why he'd picked  _that_  shot to display, since they had finally managed to get one with everyone smiling and facing forward. Sansa thought she did.

She had always felt so safe there, warm and loved. Even in her father's den away from the world (and sometimes them), her family had always been there.

Petyr's office was nothing like that, though. He kept paintings on the walls, books and figures on the shelves, but nothing of a personal nature. No photos of family or friends.

It was cold.

"Marei?" Petyr called out.

His assistant came in, a solemn young woman only a few years older than Sansa. Her platinum blonde hair was plaited back in a long braid. "Yes, Mr. Baelish?"

He held the papers out and she took them into her grasp. "See that these work orders get to Mr. Wydman as soon as possible."

Marei nodded curtly and turned to leave.

"And close the door on your way out," he added.

Like any good subordinate, she did as she was told. Silence was left in her wake.

"Is everything alright, Sansa?"

Sansa glanced up. He was looking at her as though several minutes had passed without a word being said. "What?" she asked, flustered.

"I said—" He leaned closer, propping his elbows on the desk top. "Is everything alright? Are you being treated well?"

"Yes … Yes, I'm fine." Sansa swallowed heavily. He was looking at her that way, that mask of pity mixed with understanding. It made her uneasy. It brought her back to the moment she first met him, being dragged out of the SHU, half-starved, the light searing her eyes.

" _Hey." A man stood over her—a police officer, she thought—pushing her leg with his toe. "Hey, girl. C'mon. Transfer time." His brow furrowed when he got no response and he shouted over his shoulder. "Hey, Selmy? We may have a problem."_

Suicide watch, they said. It was for her own protection, they said. All she remembered was being stripped and left alone, shivering in the dark. When she got out, Petyr had been standing there like some sort of savior, welcoming her back to the light.

She should be grateful to him for that, shouldn't she?

Sansa's mouth moved, aimlessly searching for purpose. "Has … Has there been some word from my brothers or … or some news about Arya?" Her hopes for Arya were likely foolish. Her sister had been missing since the accident that killed Father, Mother, and Robb, over two years ago. Nevertheless, Sansa couldn't  _not_  ask.

"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Your brothers are doing well in foster care, though. There's no need to worry on that account. They're well taken care of."

Somewhat relieved, Sansa nodded.

He rose from his chair and peered out the window. He took in the view of the courtyard and then maneuvered his way nearer. He crouched down before her, a look of caring on his face, and continued on in his measured, velvety tone. "I simply wanted to see how were doing. If there was anything you need. Your trial date is coming up soon."

Oh, yes. She'd forgotten.

"Have you heard from your lawyer?"

"No," she said. "Not recently."

He pursed his lips, the rest of his features highly controlled. "Well, I'm sure you will soon. Janos Slynt is a man of certain talents, and the murder of the President's son … that's a serious thing."

Resentment flared in the pit of her stomach. "I didn't kill him."

"So you have said."

"I didn't!" she shouted frantically.

"Sansa.  _Sansa._ " He took her gently by the hand. "I believe you." He pushed her hair back from her temple and an icy chill spilled through her veins. "I'm sure Mr. Slynt is merely preoccupied in dealing with the ongoing issue of your parent's estate. According to the terms of the will, you, as the eldest surviving child, are the primary heir to your parent's holdings. However, your current incarceration makes things tricky. There are certain legalities …"

"I know. I know." Sansa's eyes fell to the floor. She didn't need another reminder of all the many different ways she had failed her family. If not for her, Joffrey wouldn't have died. She wouldn't have been forced to go on the run, and she could've taken custody of her brothers and her home the way her parents would have wanted.

"Well, I'll give him a call, shall I?" Petyr said a small smile gracing his lips, painting his expression with calculated sympathy. More than anything, Sansa wanted to believe his concern. She longed to know there someone,  _anyone_  who still cared. But she knew better.

The legal issues with her parent's estate also kept her dependent on others for money. Since she had no one on the outside anymore, that only left Petyr. And he knew it. He took advantage of that fact at every opportunity.

"You don't have to do that," she whispered, her eyes still glued to the floor.

"Nonsense, my dear," he said. "I'm happy to." He curled a finger underneath her chin and made her look at him and his predatory smile. "Whatever you need."

Sansa started shaking. "Please …" she whispered. "Please … don't …"

His finger trailed beyond her chin, tracing a central path down her neck. "Now, Sansa, you know I need to," he said. They weren't talking about calling her lawyer anymore. "You are a singularly beautiful woman and you need to be prepared for all that's coming. I can promise you safety. With renewed press coverage on the upcoming trial, we've received a lot of recent threats on your life."

Sansa managed a grim nod, her eyes locked painfully on his, desperate not to acknowledge the movements of his hand.

"You aren't afraid?" he asked. Apparently, that wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"No."

In a dark corner of her mind, Joffrey's crazed voice sounded dangerously amidst a sea of broken glass stained with her blood.

" _You think I'm done with you, bitch? I'll never be done."_

" _Joff, don't … no …" Helpless on the floor, she pushed weakly against his chest, her hand red and trembling. He picked up a twinkling shard of glass from the floor and started cutting into her arm. "No, Joffrey, please!"_

Petyr's eyes broke away and drifted hungrily downward. "You know, Sansa, I  _should_  have you moved back into security housing. It's the best way to keep you safe, and it would look very bad for me if something were to happen to such a high-profile prisoner mere weeks before trial."

Sansa's hard-fought composure nearly dissolved into pure panic. She bit her lip and tried to steel her resolve. "No. I don't want to. I can't … I-I can't go back there." She would die in there.

Maybe she should die. It might be better for everyone if she did. But she was afraid.

Somewhere inside, she was always afraid.

"Very well, then. If that's what you want," he whispered hoarsely. He moved in and Sansa shut her eyes.

Everything comes with a price.

She felt the dip of cotton as he tugged down the neck of her shirt, which was already too loose. A soft current of air rolled over her skin, and his lips pressed between her breasts.

"I knew your mother once," he said, relentlessly sucking and biting on her skin. "Did I tell you that?"

Sansa nodded, although he was too preoccupied to notice. He mentioned her mother practically every time they met and it was the thing about him that horrified her the most.

He lifted his head up and took possession of her lips. As his hands snaked behind her to the clasp of her bra, Sansa kept her eyes closed and tried to imagine someone else.

When he'd finally had his fill, Petyr got to his feet and Sansa readjusted her top. He'd never asked her for more **—** Petyr Baelish was a very patient man **—** but someday he would. It was inevitable.

Straightening his button-down shirt and catching his breath, he settled on the edge of his desk, facing her. "I'll see that some more money is transferred to your account, Sansa."

Numb, Sansa tipped her chin in a quick acknowledgement. That was how this always ended. He gave her money and she did her best to make what he gave her last as long as possible. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to see him again for a while.

Taking that as her dismissal, she got up to leave.

"Oh, and Sansa?"

She turned around.

"I think we ought to discuss security housing again soon," he said with a pointed lilt. "Perhaps assess it on a day-to-day basis? I would hate to see anything happen to you, my dear."

In shock, Sansa barely responded to the clear threat. A few minutes later, she was stumbling down the corridor, wondering if she'd said anything or if she'd just nodded again, accepted it without a word or putting up a fight.

Oh, gods … What was she going to do?

She started to breathe faster and faster. Her heart hammered in her chest.

By the time she reached her cell, Sansa was grasping for every respiration like it might be her last, every crushing passage of air tearing a moan from her throat. Her whole body shook of its own accord, every ounce of control she had, lost. She scrambled for the nearest wall and sank helplessly to the floor.

Right where she'd left her, Alayne jumped down from her bunk and crouched before her. The girl watched her with animal curiosity, a slight tip of her head to one side and then the other, revealing nothing. Then, with startling suddenness and strength, Alayne took her hard by the chin, her blue eyes snaring hers.

"Are you going to start crying?"

Her lungs racing, Sansa shook her head.

"You have to go back to the laundry. You can't cry."

Sansa held Alayne's dark, mesmerizing stare and her breaths gradually slowed. The threads of her control came back to life and bit by bit became something solid within her, something she could grasp onto when needed. Everything else, this maelstrom of emotion that tried to drown her, she threw away.

She didn't need it. It only made her weak. Vulnerable.

Her only knight in shining armor was gone and she was only a shell now, waiting to join him.

Alayne nodded in approval.

She was no one, and she only cried in her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHU - (pronounced "shoe") An acronym for "special housing unit" or "security housing unit". Just another term for solitary confinement.


	4. Sansa

 

 

**JUNE 9, 2012**

 

Sansa loved to travel. As far back as she could remember, she had been drawn in by the romance of discovering someplace new, somewhere not the same old quiet life and chilled climate she'd grown up in. She'd been all over the North, seen one of the wonders of the world―the icy grandeur of The Wall―and skied the mountains of the Vale. But, to her frustration, that was about it. Her father's schedule didn't often allow time for extended trips away, and even when it did, his feet seemed to be anchored to the North. According to her mother, he'd done and seen enough in his youth to know where his heart lie.

That was all well and good for him, but Sansa wanted more. Something exciting and different. And she was finally getting it.

She'd never been this far south. Sansa watched in rapt splendor as, outside the window, the old ruins of Harrenhal Castle passed into a vast, green forest. In the distance, a great expanse of approaching blue spread across the horizon.

"Mother?" Sansa peeled her attention from the window to the seat next to her. Catelyn Stark sat with her eyes closed, a pillow tucked comfortably behind her neck, enjoying the soft hum of the airplane's engines. A row behind them, her father dozed quietly while her sister, 15-year-old Arya, played on her phone, aggressively ignoring everything and everyone.

Sansa didn't understand her sister in the slightest. They were getting the chance to spend the entire summer in the capital, in the Red Keep itself with the President and his family, and all Arya did was moan and complain about how unfair it all was. How could she want to miss this?

"Mom," Sansa said again.

"Hmm?"

Her mother opened her eyes, and Sansa pointed at the glass. "Is that Gods Eye Lake?"

Catelyn leaned in and peered over her shoulder. The massive body of water had grown in the window. Tiny ripples on the surface reflected the early afternoon sun like a radiant field of diamonds.

"Looks like it," Catelyn said. She pointed toward a dark shape in the middle of the lake. "That there is the Isle of Faces. They cultivate rare plants there. There's a grove of weirwoods, fields of flowers; some species that don't exist now anywhere else. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen." A wistful smile turned the corners of Catelyn's mouth. "My father took me there once when I was young. A bit younger than you."

Sansa smiled. She didn't have many memories of her grandfather, having grown up so far away from him, but it was nice when her mother spoke about him. Hoster Tully had been widowed when Catelyn was barely more than a toddler. He'd raised his only child by himself in a time when a man doing that was practically unheard of. On some level, he was a part of her. He gave Catelyn Stark the same rich, auburn hair and bright blue eyes that stared back at Sansa in the mirror every day. She was a Stark _and_ a Tully, the next link in an unending chain, and Sansa found it gratifying to know that part of her was loved.

"Maybe someday you and I should go, just the two of us. Would you like that?" Catelyn suggested, gently squeezing Sansa's arm. "Perhaps after you graduate?"

Sansa nodded. Elegant and strong, the epitome of all Sansa found good, her mother had always understood her better than anyone else. "I'd like that."

She gazed peacefully out the window again, a new adventure unfolding before her and the promise of more to come. "How much longer until we land, do you think?"

"Oh, we should be crossing into the Crownlands soon."

Sansa couldn't wait. It seemed like she'd been waiting forever.

For the 17-year-old girl, this was the trip of a lifetime, and it was time for her life to finally start.

 

* * *

 

**March 5, 2015 - Present Day**

 

Strands of Sansa's hair flew loosely in the wind. On the other side of the fence, trees swayed in a strong early-spring breeze. She stared through the long mass of chain link, taken in by the sound of surging leaves as the last remaining chill of winter mixed with warmer air and blew away, kissing her cheeks as it passed by.

The prison exercise yard was a glorified slab of concrete with a basketball hoop, volleyball net, and some gym equipment for those who cared to take advantage of them. Attached was a small field of splotchy green grass where inmates could walk around if they wanted. Lothor Brune was on duty today, supervising along with Lyn Corbray, both of whom Sansa mostly regarded with indifference. Officer Brune was better than most. Though stocky and obviously strong, he was close-mouthed by nature. He had a common face, but an honest one. And unlike Osmund Kettleblack, he never showed interest in any of the inmates, other than what his job required. He wore a wedding band, and Sansa had once heard in passing another guard ask him how Mya was doing. For some reason, that made Sansa like him a little more.

Officer Corbray wasn't interested in the girls either, but Sansa thought it was for completely different reasons.

The guards concentrated on the milling group of inmates around the yard. Among them, Myranda and Chataya sat at the picnic table near the ingate, talking and laughing while Melisandre, a mystic and convicted arsonist, read their tarot cards. Obara and her sisters traded barbs with Val and Ygritte, a common occurrence that usually ended up with someone insulting someone else's mother and the guards breaking them up before anyone needed stitches. A few others were scattered across the yard. Sansa stood on the far side of the field, away from everyone. Safe from their glances and hateful comments. She only wanted quiet.

She found it. In the trees and the wind. In the turn of the seasons and the appeal of getting lost in something larger than herself. However, she wasn't alone. Alayne had followed her this morning. She'd been keeping closer to Sansa over the past few days, and a very large part of Sansa was glad of it.

Alayne's fingers were twined around the metal links holding them captive, her face upturned toward the sun and her plain brown hair surrendering to the swirling wind. She looked so serene, her eyes closed as she basked in the light. Sansa envied her. Day or night, whether for a moment or to spend the next several hours dreaming, she was afraid to close her eyes. She worried what she would remember and what she might forget, as though things would literally slip away in the blink of an eye.

Her memory was scattered these days and she didn't know why. There were things she'd forgotten, gaps where she knew something  _should_  be yet … The month after Sandor … the month afterward offered only darkness. Sometimes she would walk into a room and not remember where she'd been, and the things she did recall were so real. So real she could almost reach out and touch them.

Shouting. Pain. The recollections of someone long dead inhabited the empty space between heartbeats. The sound of glass exploding filled her ears and she was there again, bruised and beaten with no way out.

" _Joff, don't … no …"_

Thump thump.

_A shard of glass caught the light and glittered in his hand._

Thump thump.

_He cut deep, carving into her arm, and too weak to fight back, she barely mustered a scream._

Thump thump.

_He slapped her hard across the face, whipping her head around. Her vision fractured into an agonizing burst of white, and before she could recover, his fingers dug into her skull and held her head down, her chin pinned to her chest._

Thump thump.

"…  _Little bird … Gods, Sansa, wake up."_

Thump thump.

_A hulking shadow loomed over her, shaking her._

Thump thump.

_The taste of blood coated her mouth and her eyelids were nearly swollen shut. Listless, she started to make sounds that could barely be classified as human. "No … get off … Joff, stop …"_

" _Sansa …"_

Thump thump.

_"Please ... don't ..."_

_Sandor wrestled with her, trying to quiet her fumbling hands, which had begun to push him away. "Sansa … shit! Don't move. Just let me―"_

_"No ... no, please. Let me go … Let me go!"_

Thump thump.

" _No, little bird. Fuck, it's me!" He snatched her wrists and gathered her quick against his chest. "He's dead. You're alright, he's dead. Fucking piece of shit got what was coming to him."_

_She burst into broken sobs, and he hoisted her up into his arms. "Come on, little bird. We've got to get out of here."_

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Sansa didn't remember what happened in between or much about the days immediately after that. Only that there was blood. There was blood everywhere, and Sandor had been there to wash it all away. He'd made it stop, all of it. He'd cleaned up her mess. It seemed wrong that the world hadn't stopped without him, but time ticked on. The planet kept on turning. A spent heart kept on beating.

"I can hear you thinking from here, you know?" Alayne cocked her head toward Sansa in mild annoyance. Her crystal blue eyes dazzled with unspoken humor.

Yes, Sansa knew. She always knew.

Alayne smiled, the disturbance to her reverie apparently forgiven, and her focus gravitated back to the world outside the Black Cells. She stared peacefully into the trees. "Why don't we come out here more often? Why do we stay inside so much?"

"You know why," Sansa replied without emotion, as grey as the prison walls.

"Hmph. I forget." Uncaring, Alayne pointed her face to the sky, closed her eyes and blissfully inhaled. "Birds, Sansa. Can you hear the birds?"

Sansa shook her head. She refused to listen. She turned away and checked the guards' positions. If they loitered in one place too long, especially so far removed from everyone else, Brune or Corbray would saunter over and make them move on. She had to stay vigilant. Keep her head down and avoid making waves. That was how she lived, how she survived.

"They won't come. Not yet. There's time." A particle of need reached out in the timbre of Alayne's voice. "Sansa, look up."

Hesitant, Sansa swung her gaze through the fence toward the trees. Limbs undulated in the wind. Blue sky and rays of sunlight peeked through fleeting breaks in the leaves.

"Just try it," Alayne said softly. She looked as though she could fly away from here; all she had to do was spread her wings.

Sansa closed her eyes.

Light shone through her lids, creating abstract patterns that floated and traveled slowly across her eyes. Absorbing the sun and its heat, her skin seemed to open up and breathe.

" _You're alright. That's it, little bird. You're alright."_ She heard Sandor's rasping voice in her head comforting her again, and she inhaled long and deep.

Her stomach fluttered and then settled. It was a taste, a small sip of freedom, and for a moment, she almost felt whole. Alayne shimmered and faded, and Sansa was at rest.

They were one and the same. There was only an ephemeral idea of Her _._

A her Sansa had long forgotten.

 

* * *

 

**June 9, 2012**

 

"Welcome to the Red Keep, Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Ladies."

The driver smiled over his shoulder as they cleared the last security checkpoint and the gates opened before them. Ned returned a polite smile and Arya shot him a dark glare.

Catelyn observed her younger daughter with a disapproving frown. "I realize you're less than thrilled about being here, Arya, but President Baratheon is your father's friend and we are here as his guests. You will mind your manners."

The luxury town car pulled forward through the security gate, the engine purred, and they started up the long cobblestone drive.

Sansa stared appreciatively out the window. The lush, wooded landscape seemed to go on and on. It was purposefully engineered to separate the Red Keep estate from the urban atmosphere of the rest of King's Landing and succeeded magnificently. The city on one side, with all the rush and excitement, blended with the natural beauty of the forest, made richer by the briny tang of sea salt in the air, blown in from nearby Blackwater Bay.

Catelyn lifted her wrist to check the time and pursed her lips. "It's almost 4:00. I was hoping to call and check on the boys before it got too late."

Arya rolled her eyes. "We've only been gone six hours."

Catelyn's demure bearing scarcely wavered. "And when you become a mother, Arya," she said calmly, "then we will discuss what is the appropriate amount of time to space phone calls to your children when you're 1,500 miles away."

Arya's mouth flapped open, ready for a fierce retort, not at all to Sansa's surprise. She couldn't possibly,  _for once_ , let something go.

"Arya, that's enough," Ned stated firmly. "You've had more than enough time to speak your piece. We discussed it, and a decision was made."

" _You_  discussed it, you mean," Arya snapped, glaring daggers at both their parents. "You didn't listen to a word I said."

Their father's long features went harder than stone. "You'll apologize, and that will be the end of it. I'll not hear one more word of disrespect toward your mother. Am I understood?"

Even though it wasn't directed toward her, Sansa felt the sting of her father's rebuke as surely as if it had been. In all her life, Sansa couldn't recall Ned Stark ever having lost his temper. He was patient and fair with everyone. Sansa knew her father had a soft spot for Arya and always had, but Arya had been pushing her luck all week and apparently even he had reached his limit.

"Am I understood, Arya?" he reiterated with force.

Arya screwed up her lips and mumbled a petulant "Yes, Dad" under her breath. "Sorry."

Catelyn sighed, and Sansa shook her head.  _Honestly, Arya, what did you expect?_

Bran and Rickon, in the absence of their parents, were both spending the summer at Last Hearth Adventure Camp, which they'd been begging to do since Bran brought the flyer home from school two years ago, when he was 11. Now a strapping 13-year-old, and Rickon already a hellion at age 9, they were ready to go out and conquer the wilderness with a pocket knife and a pup tent. However, since the camp didn't start until next week, Robb was home with them. Robb. A 21-year-old guy freshly home from his third year of college, who'd probably subsisted on a diet of bologna and peanut butter when he wasn't calling up the pizza man. Robb, who, while a good son, wouldn't know what to do with a vegetable if it walked up and said, "Eat me."

Not only that, he had come home with a new girlfriend in tow.

Jeyne. Who was introduced to their parents with an entirely too relaxed smile on her face and a suspicious glow in her cheeks.

Bran and Rickon were definitely not spending the summer alone with Robb.

And neither was Arya, not since their parents had found out she'd been sneaking around with an older boy. Arya had screamed until she was blue in the face that she and Gendry were just friends, but there was no way she wasn't going to be on the plane this morning.

There was a kernel of jealousy on Sansa's part for her younger sister. When had she ever met a boy, friend or otherwise, worth getting in trouble for? A childhood infatuation with Theon, Robb's best friend, had only been worth the peck on the cheek he'd given her, and the boys at school were just ... eugh. Overeager, dull conversation, and sloppy kisses. No, thank you. Not one of them was worth the risk of disappointing her parents, especially her mother. Sansa didn't think could stand seeing that look on her mother's face or how small it would make her feel.

Arya had no idea how strong she was. It was yet another reason Sansa was envious of her.

They spent the next few minutes in silence, Sansa looking idly out the window. But the tension in the car was soon forgotten. A kaleidoscope of butterflies swarmed in Sansa's belly as they neared the mansion.

When Sansa was a little girl, she had always imagined the Red Keep as a giant castle with stone walls, parapets, and towers that stretched into the heavens. She was a fair maiden imprisoned by an evil dragon―Arya was happy to play that part if it meant raging and burning down the couch cushion fort and pummeling her with pillows―and Sansa longed for a great warrior to rescue her. Enter Bran and his mighty steed, Robb. Robb carried around his then baby brother on his back while he clomped around on all fours, only occasionally getting his hair and ears pulled for his trouble.

In reality, the sprawling mansion wasn't a castle, but her younger self wouldn't have noticed the difference.

The Red Keep was exactly that: red. Two wings and three stories, all made of turn-of-the-last-century red brick. The facade was offset by white lined windows with black shutters, and a gorgeous white portico entrance with four imposing columns in the central section of the manor. There were 187 rooms inside, according to the driver, who'd doubled as their tour guide through King's Landing on their way from the airport, along with an underground level exclusively for authorized personnel. There was a library, a gym, indoor and outdoor pools, and lush gardens all around the estate.

The sylvan landscape along the wide cobblestone driveway opened up, and they circled a wide, grassy courtyard decorated with manicured bushes and trees, all centered around an elegant stone fountain. The luxury town car rolled to a gentle stop and parked adjacent to the main entrance. The driver got out and opened the door for her father. Men in crisp dark suits stood sentry at front doors and watched as they filed out of the car, one of them muttering into his radio, an earpiece installed in his ear. Sansa could only look up in amazement at the size and scope of the historic building.

The southern sun was warm and bright. The sky was crystal clear. The wind whistled through the trees, and birds were singing.

A stubby-looking older gentleman with a bulbous nose and courtly manner came out to greet them, his hand extended to her father long before he was actually in reach. "Governor Stark, it's so good to see you've finally arrived."

Sansa's father was an important public figure, but naturally reserved. Some saw him as reticent or downright taciturn, but the truth was he had never been comfortable with small talk. Ned granted him a stiff, close-mouthed smile as he shook his hand.

"It's good to be here." He gestured toward the family. "This is my wife, Catelyn, and these are my daughters, Sansa and Arya."

The man tipped his chin toward Catelyn and cordially grasped her hand. "Mrs. Stark, you and your daughters are most welcome. I'm Orton Merryweather, Chief Usher here at the Red Keep. I manage the household staff and coordinate the day-to-day operations. If there's anything you or your family require, I hope you'll let me know. I'd be happy to provide you with anything you need."

Catelyn smiled and graciously accepted the handshake. "Thank you very much, Mr. Merryweather. That's very kind of you."

"No, indeed, Mrs. Stark. It's my pleasure. I trust your flight was uneventful?"

"We couldn't have asked for better."

On Sansa's left, Arya heaved an impatient sigh. Sansa elbowed her in the ribs.

Mr. Merryweather's mouth curled into a cheerful grin. "I'm so glad to hear it. Shall we get you and your belongings squared away, then?" Behind them, the driver had begun to unload their suitcases from the trunk of the car. A pair of men emerged from the house. "Mattias and James can get your bags and show each of you to your rooms. I think you'll be quite pleased. President Baratheon insisted on nothing but the best for his oldest friend."

Ned and Catelyn traded a knowing glance, and he answered with a tense smile. "Aye, I'm sure he did."

"NED!" A booming shout carried across the courtyard. "Ned Stark, you old codger, where the hell have you been?"

Sansa's butterflies returned in full force as she and her parents spun toward the new voice and saw the President himself striding toward them, flanked by two of his Guard. With a head of dark hair and a beard liberally striped with grey, Robert Baratheon was every bit as big as his voice, which came as a queer sort of surprise since Sansa had seen him on TV more times than she could count. He was tall and broad, more so than her father, and when he spoke, he seemed to use every inch of it.

President Baratheon took her father affectionately by the shoulders. "Ned."

"Robert," her father replied, looking almost as glad to see his old friend.

"It's about damn time you got here. Only took you fifteen years. Surely, the North isn't so bad off they couldn't have spared you before now."

"As a matter of duty, there's invariably something to be done, Robert. You ought to know that well enough by now."

"And don't I," Robert said with chagrin. "Around here, it's forever 'Sign this. Save the education system. What do we do about healthcare? Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a prat, and his Thirteen are a pain in the ass. Let's invade Qarth.' Utter nonsense. I haven't the faintest clue how I deal with it day in and day out. But you, Ned ..." Robert adopted a studious frown, comically out of character for one so boisterous. He looked him up and down. "You've gotten fat."

Sansa's father held an impassive expression, a slight furrow to his brow as he returned his friend's scrutiny. "One of us has."

Robert snorted. "Good gods, Cat. Don't tell me in all Ned's puttering about in the North, he's finally gone and unearthed a sense of humor."

A modest smile tickling the edge of her lips, Catelyn sighed. "Honestly, you two. You're worse than children."

Robert's bellowing laugh shook his ample midsection. "As it should be. As it should be." He threw his arms around Sansa's father in a hearty embrace. "Ah, Ned, it's so good to see you again!"

"You too, Robert," Ned said, a relaxed grin settling on his face. "It's good to see you, as well."

The car having been unloaded, the driver closed the trunk. Near the doorway, Mr. Merryweather and his valets stood politely by with their bags. Taking notice, Sansa's mother lifted her wrist to recheck the time. "Ned, if you and Robert need a few more minutes, I can take the girls up and get them situated."

"Now, now," the President said. "There's no need to haul them off right away, is there? I've hardly gotten a chance to look at the girls yet. This one, for example." He inclined his chin toward Arya, hands cocked on his hips. "All fire and spit, I'll bet. Not a care in the world, because no one would dare stand in her way, am I right?"

Arya stared up at him with those grey eyes she'd inherited from their father, all flint and steel, openly resentful of him and everything having to do with her being in King's Landing.

Robert let out a low, rumbling chuckle and then a marked degree of sadness descended over him. "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said, then glanced at her father. "Don't be too hard on her, Ned. You can't buy that kind of spirit. It'd be a shame to see it crushed."

Sansa's father didn't respond. He eyed the pavement, a brief contraction in the muscle in his cheek.

Determined to shake off the abruptly somber mood, Robert then slapped on a smile and took Sansa's hand. "And you, dear girl. The last time I saw you, you were a shy little thing still grasping at your mother's skirts. Now, look at you. A rare beauty."

Blushing at the compliment, Sansa dropped her gaze. "Thank you, Mr. President. I hardly know what to say."

"Nonsense. There's no need to say anything." Robert glanced toward her father on her left and exhaled emphatically. "I swear, Ned, having all these young people around is good for the soul. Keeps old warhorses like us young, isn't that right?" His gaze swung back to Sansa, a slight huff beneath his breath. "Myrcella and Tommen will be glad to have a few people closer to their age around the old place. They get almost as bored as I do having to hang around all day. And Joff's just back from university in Lannisport for the summer. Maybe he could take you out, show you girls the city."

Heat seeped into Sansa's cheeks with a furious rush. "That … that would be lovely," was all she managed before her tongue tied into a hopeless knot. She hadn't realized Joffrey would be here. The handsome older son of President Baratheon was hardly ever in King's Landing since he'd gone off to attend college in the Westerlands, where his mother's family was from. His exploits were often splashed all over the tabloids; where we was, who he was seen with, parties and events he'd gone to. He was practically a celebrity. Sansa (along with most of her friends) had had a crush on him for years. The thought of meeting him was overwhelming.

Robert brash, jovial demeanor had completely returned. "Good! That's settled, then."

"Speaking of settled …" Catelyn interjected, her pointed gaze aimed in the direction of the valets still waiting for them.

"Of course! Go on, ladies. Do your worst. Meanwhile, we men will make our way to the lounge and pour ourselves a drink. A toast to the good old days, eh, Ned?" Sansa almost expected him to thunk his chest like a big, hairy ape. Instead, Robert threw his great arm around her father's shoulders and led him toward the entrance without delay.

Arya watched them go with a scowl, Robert already reminiscing loudly in their father's ear and Ned glancing back with a resigned smile. "Unbelievable," she mumbled under breath, before turning her gaze on Sansa and Catelyn, somehow sadder than before. "An entire summer stuck here, and we're not even going to see him that much, are we?"

"I'm sorry, Arya," Catelyn said. "Robert asked your father for his assistance with a sensitive matter. You know he couldn't refuse."

"Whatever."

Arya marched up the driveway, and Sansa was left next to the car with her mother. She sighed. "She's not going to be like this all summer, is she?"

Catelyn wove her arm around Sansa's shoulders and they followed idly along. "It will be alright. The longest Arya has ever been angry was when I made her dress up for the Saint Maeson's Day Festival. Robb told her that she looked like an eggplant wrapped in cotton candy, and for a week she made her feelings about it quite clear. To _everyone_ ," Catelyn said. "She'll calm down sooner or later."

"Can you promise it'll be sooner?"

Sansa's mother gave a soft, lilting laugh. "When it comes to your sister, I wouldn't tempt fate."

Sansa nearly smiled, but the deep roar of an engine carried in behind her. She quickly spun her head around, as did Catelyn. A gleaming black truck was advancing up the driveway at a much less sedate pace than they'd come. The steel-rimmed tires crunched and rolled against the cobblestone as the driver sped in and steered around the town car. The truck pulled off to the right and skidded to halt, brake lights flashing in Sansa's face before the massive engine died and the driver flung the door open.

He was  _huge_.

From twenty yards away, Sansa could tell he eclipsed even the President in height, and where Robert Baratheon had gone soft, this man was all muscle. Carved out from granite, he was easily the largest man she had ever seen. He was dressed head to toe in black and wore an earpiece identical to the ones worn by the President's Guard. It peeked out from behind long dark hair that hung past his shoulders in thin strands. A beard neatly framed his jaw and a series of tattoos decorated his right arm to disappear beneath his sleeve. Paying no one any mind, he reached into his truck and resurfaced with a gun in his hand, which he promptly shoved into his thigh holster. He clipped it secure and, again, reached into his truck. The second gun he tucked into an under the arm holster, situated over the intimidating Kevlar vest that he wore over his t-shirt.

He glanced sideways at Sansa and her mother, his smoldering gaze raking her over the coals before it migrated past them to where Arya stood, and their father, the President, Mr. Merryweather and his valets beyond her. He looked at the town car and a scowl set his hard features ablaze.

He slammed the door to his truck and stalked menacingly toward them. His stare found Sansa again, but this time, as he turned, his left side came into view.

Sansa gasped.

Catelyn's hand squeezed tightly around her arm, and Sansa realized too late what she had done. He huffed, his eyes narrowing on her, a hateful smirk on his face as if he'd expected as much. Withering under his gaze, Sansa's insides twisted with guilt.

Then, the behemoth removed his gaze from hers. His lips―the parts unmarred by scar tissue―contorted into a loathing grimace as he zeroed in on their driver and shouted. "You!" His voice was rasping and full of grit. "You got their shit unloaded?"

Leaning against the hood of the town car, the driver gaped and startled to attention, nearly dropping his keys in the process. "Yes. Everything's on its way in." He gestured toward Mr. Merryweather's valets and the glowering President directly beside them.

Whoever he was, he didn't seem bothered in the slightest. He rounded on the driver again with malicious intent. "Then, what are you still doing here?"

The driver seemed frozen in place.

"The First Lady and her precious prince are going to be rolling in here in about thirty seconds," the man snarled, getting uncomfortably close to him. "If you don't have this thing out of here by then and into underground parking, they're going to find you with my big fucking boot up your ass. How does that sound?"

"Hound!" Robert Baratheon's tone was angry yet oddly tolerant, as though he were actually calling a dog to heel. Sansa's brow furrowed, wondering why anyone, no matter how … unpleasant, would ever want such a horrid nickname. "I think that's more than enough for the time being," Robert continued. "Why don't you come over here and meet the Governor of the North, the man whose 'shit' you're so concerned with?"

The Hound ignored him for a moment, preferring instead to stare down the driver. A bead of sweat trickled down the driver's brow, and he grinned, if one could call it that. The burned skin on his left side stretched and contorted the muscles of his face into ugly angles, making a mockery of the simple motion. A deep, gravel-laden chuckle slowly issued from the Hound's throat, and the driver, thoroughly unnerved, shot into action.

Seconds later, the town car was in gear and pulling away. The Hound's eyes flickered toward Sansa's and caught her in a hard stare. Sansa snatched her eyes away and hurried toward her father.

"Ned, this is—" The President began, though Sansa's father looked none too pleased to be making his acquaintance. Catelyn watched them cautiously.

"The Hound. Sandor Clegane," Ned finished for himself. His handshake was brusque and quick and over practically before it started. "You have quite a reputation in certain circles."

The Hound shrugged. "People talk. Doesn't mean much."

"Are you suggesting that what I've heard in regards to you isn't the truth?"

The corner of his mouth twitched and formed a subtle smile. "Didn't say that."

A shudder ran down Sansa's spine.

"The Hound is head of private security," Robert explained. "Cersei brought him in after that Greyjoy business to protect the children. Apparently, the entire President's Guard wasn't good enough for her."

Arya's arms were folded across her chest, toting a bemused smile as she eyed the Hound up and down. "How good can you be if you need two guns inside the most secure building in Westeros?"

He turned his ashen stare on Arya and looked down his nose at her. "Good enough to know better than a know nothing pup," he rasped. "At least I can count." He lifted the hem of his cargo pants to reveal a third gun strapped to his ankle. "For a rainy day."

"And how does the weather look for this evening, Clegane?" Robert asked as if he'd asked the question a thousand times before.

The Hound glanced over his shoulder down the driveway, then Sansa found herself inside his gaze once more. "Fine enough."

His eyes were grey. As grey as a storm.

Sansa blinked as two armored SUVs with the Lannister Corp. lion emblazoned on the side appeared from within the trees and rumbled onto the main driveway. Between them, there was a silver-grey Cadillac. Catelyn tugged her back further off the stony drive as the Cadillac and its escorts circled and pulled up in front of the house.

The Hound jogged out to catch and hold the Cadillac's door as it was flung open and the First Lady emerged, her reputed beauty on full display in a sleek white pantsuit. A stunning gold pendant hung on a long chain around her neck, matching the gold of her hair.

But Sansa's breath stopped as a second person stepped from the Cadillac.

_It's him._

_Oh gods, it's him._

 

* * *

 

**March 5, 2015 - Present Day**

 

Sansa suddenly yanked away from the fence, gasping for air. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she staggered, fumbling like a newborn foal as she tried to keep her feet.

_He's dead. He's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead._

Sandor's voice came back to her. _"Fucking piece of shit got what was coming to him."_

 _I know. I know,_ she replied, bent over and braced against her knees, her only foundation. Just because she couldn't remember didn't mean she didn't know that much. How could she not? There had been blood smeared all over Sandor's shirt and hands. It didn't seem important whether it was hers or Joffrey's. She was alive and Joffrey wasn't.

 _It's alright, Sandor, I promise._ Sansa nodded to herself, surety covering her like a warm blanket. He had always tried to protect her. This time, at least, she could reassure him.

She knew what happened.

_He's dead. He's dead._

Supporting herself against the fence, Sansa managed to straighten herself out, her legs only slightly feeling like jelly. Across the yard, someone was kicking up a fuss.

Lysa Arryn had wedged herself up against a section of the fence. She was screaming at Officer Corbray and throwing clumps of grass at him while he advanced toward her, pissed off but hands up and open, as nonthreatening a posture as he could manage under the circumstances.

"Arryn, it's time to head back to the dorms," he said in a sugary sweet, contrived tone. "You want to go back to your room, right? Your nice, cozy cell?"

"Get away!" Lysa screeched as she pitched another wad of grass at him. "I know what you want. I see more than you think. You're trying to keep me away from him!"

"Come on, you unbalanced loon."

"You can't speak to me that way. You have no right! He won't let you!"

Sansa sighed. It wasn't unusual for Lysa to start something with the guards, the inmates, or anyone unlucky enough to be passing by. The prison staff had labeled Lysa a "habitual pain in the ass", but it wasn't entirely her fault. She walked around the prison like a ghost, a gaunt specter with pointed features and hollowed out cheeks, usually trembling and raving about one thing or another, unaware of who she was talking to. It was frightening how far from the real world she seemed to be. It made Sansa self-conscious sometimes. She wondered if people ever saw the same look in her eyes, void of direction, completely adrift in a sea of … nothing. That's all memories were in the end. Inconsequential echoes that might have meant something once, but now …

Sansa shook her head in attempt to clear her mind. What was Lysa doing here? Anyone with eyes could see there was something wrong with her. She needed a hospital, not a prison cell.

Alayne snorted behind her. "Yeah.  _She_  needs help."

"Stop it," Sansa hissed, casting a harsh glare her way.

Out of the corner of her eye, Officer Brune left his post with most of the inmates, pausing only for a moment when he realized one of them had followed after him. "Gilly, don't even think about it," he warned. He whipped his head back around and dashed toward Corbray and Lysa, right about the time it was clear Office Corbray had decided enough was enough.

"Alright, that's it," Corbray said. "It's time to go, fruitcake."

Corbray was thin and lean, but in excellent condition. He grabbed the much smaller woman by the collar and roughly snapped her to her feet.

Lysa's anger turned to fright, and she wriggled desperately against his grip. "Let me go! Let me go!" Her screams dissolved into terrified sobs as she clawed at his hands, looking down at the ground as if it was a wide open mouth, ready to spread its gaping jaw and eat her.

"Corbray, take it easy!" Officer Brune shouted. He grasped Corbray sharply by the shoulder and jerked him backward. Corbray's grip on Lysa slipped, and the woman tumbled to the ground, crying. Brune and Corbray grappled against each other, Brune holding Corbray back and getting the brunt of his anger for it. The brief struggle, however, came to an abrupt end when Gilly shot past them both and knelt down with Lysa, quickly taking the weeping woman in her arms.

"There, now," Gilly said, clutching her close. "You're alright. It's alright."

An overflowing cauldron of emotions spilled down through Sansa's being as she listened to Gilly's soft words of comfort, and she was paralyzed in its wake, another voice alive in her mind.

" _You're alright. That's it, little bird. You're alright."_

"Why? Why would he let them do this? I'd do anything for him," Lysa cried piteously. "I put the tears in Jon's wine, I wrote the letter ..."

"It's alright now," Gilly murmured. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

Nestling into Gilly's body, Lysa's unsteady gaze went downward, where Gilly's rounded belly pushed against her orange jumpsuit. The distraught woman drew a shaking hand to hover tremulously over her pregnant form. "I-I would have given him a son, too," she said with a stutter. "But they murdered him. I didn't know … I didn't know …"

Gilly nodded, compassion flush across her face. She patted Lysa's head and rocked her as she would a baby. "It's okay now. Shh … shh ..."

"My boy ... my sweet boy ..." Hysterics subsided into mournful, racking sobs. All fight appeared to have fled as Gilly continued on, gently humming words of comfort like a soothing lullaby.

When she had calmed down enough, Officer Brune sent Corbray off to mind the other inmates, who were watching the entire scene from the concrete yard like a pack of vultures . Then, he crouched down next to Gilly and, speaking in tones too low for Sansa to hear, coaxed Lysa's hand into his and pulled her carefully to her feet. Sansa couldn't imagine what he might've told her to get her to come so quietly with him, but she did. She walked as docile as a lamb toward Main Housing without another word.

After watching them go, Gilly glanced at Sansa. Her whole body seemed to sink, her face heavy as she took a deep breath. It was sad. The entire situation was sad. And nothing would be done about it, which made it so much worse.

Sansa walked took her time approaching her, dragging her fingers along the chain link, her steps unsure. Sansa wasn't on particularly friendly terms with anyone in Black Cells, and wouldn't have been, even if they had deemed her worth their time. She preferred being alone. There was little point to anything else. But she didn't mind Gilly. Gilly was quiet, kept to herself, and didn't expect different from anyone else. If Sansa could have liked anyone in here, it might've been her.

When they met, the corner of Gilly's lips nudged into a wan smile.

"You're good with her," Sansa said, peering off into the distance.

Gilly shifted a little and glanced toward Lysa and Officer Brune's retreating backs. With a resigned exhale, she looked again at Sansa. "It's not hard, really. Just have to take your time with her. Some of the guards forget we have all the time in the world here."

Sansa's mouth ticked upward at the corner. As if on cue, Officer Corbray whistled loudly through his fingers and yelled at them from across the yard, where the other women were already filing inside. "Let's go, ladies!"

They started slowly across the field, letting the silence sit.

"I wonder what happened to her. To make her like that," Sansa mused aloud, although she could probably take a guess.

Gilly shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure I want to. Some things out there you're better off not knowing, you know what I mean?"

Sansa nodded.

"Right. I nearly forgot." Gilly smirked, her slight overbite on display, her almond-shaped eyes veering off awkwardly to Sansa's left arm. "I expect you do."

The breeze kicked up, and Sansa found herself pinching at her sleeve, making sure it was still in place.

"It helps, though," Gilly said after a moment. "She seems to have a soft spot for this one."

Gilly smoothed a hand over her swollen belly, and Sansa followed the motion with hesitance. Generally, she ignored Gilly's obvious condition. The mere thought of it was difficult for Sansa to handle and remain focused. Alayne liked to look, but Sansa couldn't. A baby. Happiness. Light. She was as good as dead. What was she supposed to do with dreams of a home and a life dancing in her head?

Still, she couldn't help but sneak a few glances. The bump was the size of a volleyball. Longing curled along her insides. She wondered how it would feel.

"How …" Sansa started, her curiosity getting the better of her. "H-How far along are you?"

Gilly smiled. "About six months, so they tell me. He started kicking a few weeks ago."

"It's a boy?"

Gilly nodded. "It's good. Sam will be glad to have a boy. I can't imagine he'd know what to do with a girl, although there's not much difference to start out with. Just the parts. Men get rattled over the smallest things, sometimes. Things you'd never guess."

With a sentimental ache in her chest, she remembered how Sandor had looked the first time she'd gotten her period while they were on the run. There were other moments when she'd seen him truly shaken—it was the worst after one of his nightmares—but even now, Sansa couldn't help smiling at the memory of the big, gruff giant frozen stiff at the thought of having to buy tampons. How would he have handled a baby? Probably no better than this mysterious Sam.

"Sam's the baby's father?"

"That's what it'll say on his birth certificate. It's what Sam and I want, and as far as the courts are concerned, that's all that matters."

Sansa furrowed her brow at her reply, but didn't get a chance to inquire further. They both clammed up as they neared Officer Corbray, and his hawkish eyes followed them as they moved past. Once inside, Officer Kettleblack was stationed in the corridor, doing a head count and directing the flow of traffic. There was a long yellow stripe that ran the center of the hallways of the Black Cells. It was a strictly enforced rule: guards and civilian personnel on the left, prisoners on the right.

"I'll see you in the laundry later?" Gilly asked, trudging along while, up ahead in line, Myranda gave Officer Kettleblack a suggestive wink.

"Yeah," Sansa said. She was assigned there at least until her trial date, assuming she lived that long.

Gilly bit her lower lip, pensive, a thought nesting on the tip of her tongue. "Sam ... He's different. Than most boys. He's shy, kind of awkward that way. But cute, you know?"

Sansa nodded, believing that he was. Gilly's face lit up just talking about him.

"When I met him, I was in trouble. He could've walked away. I  _expected_  him to. But he didn't. I could have gotten five years for what I did. Lawyer got me a deal, bringing my sentence down to two, but that still means Sam'll be raising this baby on his own for almost another year before I get out."

"He must love you," Sansa said, envious of a heart left unbroken.

Gilly smiled. "Yeah. I think so. Have you ever met someone and just thought, 'He's the one'?"

Sansa shook her head. "No."

It was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a board on Pinterest exclusively for pics that I'm drawing inspiration from in order to write this fic - characters, places, etc, that help me form a mental picture. If anyone's interested in taking a look, check it out at: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/firedew1/stay-with-me/
> 
> And for your general information, Sansa is 17 when she first arrives in King's Landing. Joffrey is 20, and Sandor is 31.


	5. Sansa

** **

 

  **December 22, 2013**

 

The roads of King's Landing were a blur in the window. Street lights sailed by like candles in a dark river. Bodies oscillated along the sidewalk in a dim jumble of color. Sansa was sinking into quicksand. She was dizzy. And hurt … hurt …

Gods, her head hurt.

Everything hurt.

Why did everything have to hurt?

Her face throbbed. Barely able to open her eyes, she glanced down at her arm. She was bleeding all over Sandor's truck.

"... filthy cock-sucking son of a whore." Fed up with shouting obscenities at surrounding traffic, he slammed his hand into the steering wheel and bellowed in a terrifying snarl. " _Move!_ "

The car in front of him pulled forward, and Sandor craned his neck around. "Fuck this." At the nearest cross street, he sharply spun the steering wheel. The huge truck barreled through the intersection. They turned hard, tires squealing, and sped down the street.

"You still with me, little bird?" Sandor's voice sounded far away. An ever expanding field of black ringing the edge of her vision, Sansa's head bobbed and swayed with the movement of the truck as they weaved in and out of traffic. His eyes darted between her and the road, and he reached over. Blinking sluggishly, she felt his hand at her head.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath. "Alright. Hang on."

He hit the gas, and the engine roared.

Sansa didn't feel a thing.


	6. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kickstand75 and jennilynn411 are awesome. I need to make that official because they are quite simply THE BEST. Bar none. You may continue reading now. And no tears this time, I promise.

** **

 

 

**March 9, 2015 - Present Day**

 

Tyrion Lannister loathed his sister. Had loathed the sight of her for as long as he could remember. It was the sort of loathing that imagined an unfortunate accident on the stairs or a mugging gone terribly wrong, and then trying not to laugh all the way through the eulogy. But, for all his dreams of sororicide, even Tyrion had to admit that Cersei Lannister-Baratheon was the consummate First Lady.

It was an annoyingly cold day, and unseasonably so for March in King's Landing. Gloomy grey clouds hung above the Red Keep, pushed along by a chill, damp breeze off the bay that seeped through Tyrion's clothes. But, while he felt soggy and frozen like a fish who'd had a particularly bad day, Cersei was apparently unbothered. She stood at the podium a statue of marble, beautiful and cold, playing the part of the aggrieved mother with pride, dignity, and refined grace. Hundreds of cameras were trained on her. Flash bulbs shuttered in rapid succession and flared at blinding levels. Reporters volleyed question after question at her, and she answered each one calmly, her perfectly poised veneer steadfastly in place.

Bitch.

"Mrs. Baratheon," one reporter yelled, "any comment on the escalating hostilities in Meereen?"

"The President will make a statement on that and other issues concerning Essos and our foreign policies at another time."

Another reporter jumped in quickly. "Speaking of Essos, there are rumors that Daenerys Targaryen is setting herself up for a run in the next election. She spent most of her life in Essos, but she was born in Westeros and legally has a valid claim."

Cersei met the portly man's stare with a cat-eyed bearing. "I don't comment on rumors. Is there a question in there, Mr. Gilchrist, or shall we move on?"

Any response was immediately lost in the renewed shouts of journalists vying for the next question. "Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon!"

Cersei pointed into the crowd.

"Mrs. Baratheon, Sansa Stark's trial has been set to begin a month from today. Do you and the President plan on attending?"

There was a noticeable pause. Cersei glanced down at the podium, and then she lifted her chin. "Joffrey Baratheon was my eldest son. I consider it my obligation to be there to see his killer answer for her crime. As for my husband, naturally he also would like to be there, but his attendance will depend entirely on matters of state."

"Is the President worried his presence might sway the jury?" a woman cried out.

"Robert has the utmost faith in the people of the Crownlands. He knows that the justice system will prevail."

Dozens of voices chimed in at once until Cersei pointed once again, this time to Sharynn Slate from WBS Channel 5. Sharynn's star was on the rise around Westeros, developing a reputation for her in-depth one-on-one interviews. Tyrion wouldn't have minded a sitdown with her himself. Her coffee black hair was slicked back into a polished chignon, and she wore a tailored business suit with cleavage just on the right side of wrong.

A startling contrast to the ambitious frenzy of the other reporters, her question came out soft and sympathetic. "Mrs. Baratheon, Miss Stark's lawyer has consistently declined to make a statement on her behalf. Have you visited Miss Stark personally? Have you asked her what happened that night?"

Cersei bowed her head for a moment. No doubt thinking of her beloved former son. Touching. Very touching.

"No, I have not. Miss Stark was a guest in my home. Her parents, the gods rest their souls, were dear friends, and my Joffrey loved her more than life itself." She released a small, breathy sigh. "It has been a painful time for my family, not only to have lost one of our own, but to also have to realize that someone we once cared for was not who she appeared. I will have to reconcile myself to that fact. And, until I do, I don't think seeing Miss Stark is in anyone's best interests."

Especially not Sansa's, Tyrion thought with chagrin.

"If you could ask her one question, Mrs. Baratheon, what would it be?"

Strands of golden hair blown loose in the breeze touched Cersei's face. "I hardly know," she said, all humility and carefully contained sadness. "I suppose I'm no different than any other parent who has ever suffered the loss a child. I live every moment of every day wondering if there was something I could have done differently, something more that might have made a difference. I doubt there are any answers to those questions. But … perhaps I would want to know why. Why my son? Why him?"

Well done, sister. Audiences everywhere would lap that up with a spoon.

A bone-chilling gust of wind rattled the trees and blew straight through Tyrion's coat. He glanced at his watch and looked around the courtyard. The press conference was pretty much at its end. Surely he'd made a sufficient show of family unity to satisfy his father. Regardless, if he didn't leave soon, he wasn't sure he'd ever find his balls again without sending out a search party. Maybe when he got back to his office, he should have Pod rustle up Sharynn's private number. For health reasons.

Tyrion turned his stunted stride past Cersei's entourage and back toward the Red Keep. Behind him, the chorus of hungry reporters resumed, shouting in earnest, the media always desperate for one more sound bite. "Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon, what about Sandor Clegane? Why did he help Miss Stark escape the authorities? Do you think he played a part in your son's murder? Any thoughts on the suspicious nature of his death? Any comment on the claims that Joffrey's murder might have been self-defense? Mrs. Baratheon! Mrs. Baratheon!"

The droning voice of the Press Secretary took Cersei's place at the microphone, and Tyrion went inside. Podrick Payne, his assistant, was waiting for him in the entryway. He had a round face and an eager if somewhat vacant expression of which Tyrion had grown oddly fond.

Tyrion shook out of his coat and handed it off before continuing down the hall. "I need something to drink, Pod. Something strong, something stiff, and I need it now."

Left behind for a moment, Pod hurried to catch up. "Yes, sir."

"And deliver a bottle of champagne to my sister's solar. Nothing too expensive. We can't have her thinking I give a damn, can we?"

"No, sir."

"As much as I enjoy pithy conversation, Podrick, you look like a man with something to say. What else have you got for me?"

Fumbling around Tyrion's pea coat, Pod thrust out a list of messages. "Mr. Rosby called. Tomorrow's Treasury meeting has been changed from 10:30 to 11:00. And your ex-wife—"

"Would that be Shae or Tysha?"

"Umm …" Pod snatched the note back from Tyrion's hand and quickly glanced down at his own handwriting. "Shae."

Quirking his brow, Tyrion reclaimed his messages. "In the future, let's refer to Tysha as my ex-wife and Shae as my ex-ex-wife. Cuts down on the confusion." It would also be a ready reminder as to how much he and that particular ex-wife were never ever ever getting back together.

And now that song was going to be stuck in his head all day. Merciful gods. Wasn't having to deal with his sister on a daily basis hell enough?

"Yes, sir," Pod replied with a nod. "She says your alimony check is two days late, and she needs you to call the dealership about her car. It's making a funny noise."

Tyrion sighed. "Never get married, Podrick."

"Yes, sir."

Tyrion eyed him.

"No, sir?" Pod amended, nervously searching for the correct answer.

Tyrion pursed his lips, observing him with the intense scrutiny of an ant under a magnifying glass. "I've changed my mind, Podrick. With that kind of stick-to-itiveness, you'll make the perfect husband." He gave a short little wave. "Go. Marry some nice girl. Have a long and happy life, with a moderately sized house, only one car, and lots of fat babies."

Pod's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh. Thank you, sir."

"Just learn from my mistakes. Avoid the clingy ones and anyone who asks for a credit card number first. Shae, I'm embarrassed to say, was both."

"Yes, sir," Pod agreed. Too quickly, this time. At least, he then had the decency to stare shamefacedly at the floor.

Guilt did wondrous things for Pod's productivity, however. In minutes, he had Tyrion settled in his office with a snifter full of Cognac, the thermostat bumped up to a more comfortable level and the day's files already sorted on his desk. He made himself scarce, and Tyrion set down to work. An altogether too sobering task of late.

He thumbed through spreadsheets regarding the national debt and some worrying reports from the Federal Reserve. Terrorist attacks in Meereen and riots in Yunkai had sparked talk of war in Essos, and with so many allied countries on the fringes of the conflict, Westeros would be expected to take an active part in their defense. However, the economy at home had taken a turn for the worse in the last few years. Westeros could scarcely afford to go to war, but it was hard to find anyone around here lately who cared. The Secretary of the Treasury, Gyles Rosby, was recently diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was getting ready to resign his position. Tywin Lannister, arguably the most powerful man in the country with Lannister Corp. at his back and the office of VP clutched tightly in his fist, was more concerned about the next election cycle than the economy. And Robert …

After Ned Stark's death, Robert had crawled into a bottle and didn't come out. Joff's death hadn't helped, although Robert was as aware as anyone of his shithead tendencies. These days, Robert was more pickle than President. It was his last term of office, and short of setting the Red Keep on fire, Tyrion doubted he could get Robert to bat an eye at the treasury projections. The entire economy could collapse, and he wouldn't care.

The crushing weight of responsibility fell like an avalanche down on Tyrion's pint-sized shoulders. He swished the Cognac around in the glass and gulped it down until his insides felt like they had been doused in high-priced battery acid. He exhaled on a long, lingering puff, vaguely disheartened to see his glass already empty.

If he was going to attempt to keep the country from burning, he was definitely going to need more alcohol.

"Podrick!" he shouted through the open doorway. His assistant's desk lay just outside. Movement in the periphery of his vision spurred him to continue. "Podrick, I need you to go down to Records and pull a few files for me, and my glass could use a little freshening up."

Frowning as he gave himself over to the problem of finding solutions, Tyrion barely noted Pod as he refilled his glass. He just scribbled off a short list of what he needed onto a sticky note and carelessly stuck it to his faithful assistant's arm as he moved past.

"Mmhmm," Pod murmured, completely unfazed.

He wandered toward the door, then screeched to a sudden halt as Cersei swooped in, a bottle of champagne dangling by the neck in her hand.

"What is this?" she demanded without wasting a moment.

Pod gulped.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair and sighed, the corners of his mouth pinched into an impatient scowl. Whatever arch impulse that had possessed him to send in the bottle in the first place had since flown off to a tropical beach somewhere to enjoy the sunshine while he was stuck here with her. "It was a gift, dear sister, meant with my sincerest compliments."

Cersei shot him a withering look. "I don't have time for your games."

"Well, that's convenient, as I have little interest in playing them." Tyrion waved her off, already bored. "Please, feel free to share it with whomever you like. I know Jaime hasn't shown much interest of late, but there's always Lancel. Or that Kettleblack fellow on your security team. What's his name? Osfryd?" Reconsidering, he cocked his head to the side. "Although, it was Osney's company you always preferred, wasn't it? My apologies. I can never remember which one is which."

Tyrion tried once again to focus on his reports while Cersei glared at him with all the warmth of a coiling snake. Her eyes shifted, and she looked down her nose at Pod. "Leave us."

"Sir?" His questioning, almost pleading gaze found Tyrion's.

"It's all right, Podrick. You can go." Tyrion didn't blame him. This was the last place he wanted to be, as well.

The instant he was out of the room, Cersei returned her attention to Tyrion. Her voice, like sweet poison, dripped from her lips, sedate and lethal. "Who do you think you're talking to? How dare you speak to me like that."

"Now, now, sister. It's not as if your late night pastimes are any great secret. The only one who doesn't know is Robert. And Father, of course." Tyrion idly flicked a pen across his desk. It clicked and clattered over the varnished surface to land crookedly against his calendar. "According to him, you're still the only one of his children who's ever amounted to anything, Jaime having thumbed his nose at the family legacy for a career in law enforcement, of all things, and I—"

"And you being the drunken, philandering troll that you are."

"That's drunken, philandering _dwarf_ if you don't mind," Tyrion replied with a wry smirk. And of the three, that was undoubtedly the greatest sin of them all, as far his family was concerned. "Father should be pleased, anyway, at your performance this morning. There's nothing quite like a family tragedy to gain sympathy with the voters, and you do play the role of the grieving mother so well. Truly. I was almost moved to tears."

Beneath her even exterior, Cersei bristled with rage. "And what would you know about it? Losing someone. You, who can't even hold a marriage together for more than a year at a time. Your closest friends are people paid to put up with you, and your own family can hardly stand the sight of you."

Tyrion's expression molded into an austere frown. This was the Cersei he knew—vengeance, not tears. He refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she'd hurt him. "I just want to make certain you've thought this through, putting Joffrey out as some kind of saint and painting Sansa as a monster."

"You always hated Joffrey."

"I did," Tyrion readily confessed. "He was a blithering toad, who never would've been the golden prince you and Father wanted him to be."

"No. You always hoped for that title yourself."

"That doesn't mean I wanted him dead." Tyrion took a long breath, his jaw screwed tight. "He deserved it, sister. You know that as well as I do. Sansa was a virtual prisoner in this house. He was hitting her."

Cersei shook her head. "I know nothing of the sort."

"Fine. Stay in denial if you want, but Sansa's trial is coming up. Whatever goodwill you and Father secure for when he makes his run for President will evaporate when the truth comes out in court."

"Sansa Stark murdered my son," Cersei hissed. "That is the truth. That is the only truth that matters."

"Barristan Selmy doesn't see it that way. Yes, there was some conflicting evidence, but the man was the most respected Chief in the history of the King's Landing Police Department, and he resigned rather than pin a murder charge on that girl."

"She's guilty. That evidence you so readily want to ignore says so."

"You know it's not that simple."

"I know I can hardly expect a bunch of swinging cocks to look past that girl's pretty face long enough to see the truth."

Tyrion glared and his voice lowered to a resonant pitch. "There was blood all over, sister. I saw it. So did you. Most of it was Sansa's, and we _know_ there was another person in that room."

Cersei scoffed and a cold smile touched the corner of her mouth. "And he's dead, isn't he? For keeping her from me. For trying to hide what she did."

A deathly chill raced along Tyrion's spine, and he went silent.

"Sansa Stark killed my boy, and it's her turn to pay for it." Cersei sauntered over and thunked the champagne bottle down in front of him. "Keep your gift. I'll do my celebrating when this is all over."

"Cersei, the DA's case won't hold up at trial," he called after her. "There are too many discrepancies. And even if you manage to get Sansa convicted, there's no way you'll be able to keep Joffrey—and this family—from getting slandered all over the media."

Cersei waltzed out as if she hadn't heard him, and Tyrion balled up his fist in frustration. Naturally, Cersei had no intention of ever letting it get as far as a trial, but somehow he'd thought he could still reason with her. That leveraging Tywin's future plans for the Presidency against her personal vendetta might make her think twice about her course of action. Idiot. Cersei was blind, and he was a fool.

Tyrion picked up his office phone and dialed his assistant's extension. "Yes, Pod. Is he back yet? Alright. Tell him I want to see him."

He hung up the receiver. He looked darkly across his office and sipped his Cognac, carefully this time, as visions of a young redheaded girl, smart and friendly though a little shy, slipped across his memory. He'd met Sansa Stark at dinner her first night in the Red Keep. She was seventeen, then. Wide-eyed and far too sweet. Although he'd been busy exchanging pleasantries with her parents and the other dignitaries invited to welcome the Starks to King's Landing, he still remembered the knot that had formed deep in the pit of his stomach when he saw how taken she was already by Joffrey's attentions. He'd thought the Stark name would protect her. Still, he should have done something.

He'd never imagined how things would end up.

Several minutes later, Pod's head popped around the door. "He's here, sir."

Tyrion nodded and set down his glass. Pod disappeared and Bronn took his place, casually leaning against the doorframe with his thumbs tucked inside his belt. "You know, I rather enjoy these little fact-finding jobs you send me out on."

"Oh?"

"Aye," he said, his lilting tone in full effect. He gave up his position in the doorway and swaggered into the room. He plopped down into one of the two receiving chairs across from Tyrion and threw his feet up onto Tyrion's desk. "I'm thinking one of these days, I might give up this security gig and try it full time. Blackwater, P.I. has a pretty nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Tyrion glanced pointedly at Bronn's boots.

"Oh. Sorry." Bronn pulled a foot back, dusted off the bottom of his shoe, and placed it right back where it was.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. Unlike the staid, suit-wearing division of the President's Guard, Bronn, head of Tyrion's own private security, didn't take too much stock in formalities. Not that he wasn't capable; he just didn't see the point in it. Saying anything more would have been equally as pointless, so Tyrion let it go. He'd have Pod repolish his desk later.

"Any luck locating Osney yet?"

"Nope. Same story everywhere. Got fired and decided to take a trip out of town. I went by his apartment. Suitcases are gone, though his clothes are still there. Trash and sink are empty, his voicemail's full, and the landlady's been collecting his mail—junk for the most part, by the way. Doesn't look like he's been there for a long time."

"How long do you think?"

Bronn shrugged. "Landlady's got stuff dating back from last August, so I'd say at least that long. And from what I can gather, nobody's heard from him either."

Tyrion made a noise, a low "hmm" in the back of his throat.

Bronn nodded. "Aye. I thought it seemed off too, so I did a little more digging. Turns out his rent's up-to-date. Paid like clockwork on the 1st of every month."

Tyrion sat forward, his interest suddenly piqued. "By whom?"

"Who else? Lannister Corp."

Naturally, Tyrion thought. Lannister Corp. was his family's bread and butter. Tywin Lannister had spent a lifetime building his father's company up from a middling outfit to a giant in the mining industry. Currently, Kevan Lannister, the company's CFO, was heading the board while Tywin was occupied by public office, but Tywin's influence at its headquarters in Casterly Rock was still felt. It was in the walls. He still made regular visits. He still consulted with Kevan on an almost daily basis. For all Tyrion cared, he could die there.

But Tywin wouldn't give a damn about Osney Kettleblack's rent. It had to have been Cersei. The question was: why? Tyrion's suspicions had been brewing now for months, but he had no evidence, and similar to Joffrey's murder, every answer he got seemed to contradict itself.

"You're sure there wasn't any sign that Gregor had been there?"

Bronn huffed out loud. "If the Mountain had been there, everyone would've noticed. He's not one you easily miss."

"True." And without Tywin's say so, Gregor wasn't likely to have been there anyway. Just as Bronn belonged to Tyrion and the Hound had belonged to Cersei, Gregor Clegane was Tywin's private security and, when necessary, his personal army. Gregor wasn't the type to make someone quietly disappear. He was the weapon Tywin used when he wanted to make a statement. If Gregor had ever set foot in Osney's apartment, there would have been pieces of him everywhere and stains no shampoo would ever get out.

That ruled out Tywin. So he was back to Cersei working on her own and the events of last July.

"What about the Hound?" Tyrion asked. "Is there still no sign of him?"

Bronn paused, his spine stiffening, his jaw taut. "No. No, there's nothing." A faint shadow passed momentarily over his features, one Tyrion might've interpreted as regret if he didn't know better. It surprised him. Most of the men employed by his family were thugs and ex-mercenaries. While he hid it better, Bronn was more mercenary than most. It was hard to believe he had a sentimental bone in his body.

"It's been eight months. Maybe he really is dead," Tyrion said.

Bronn nodded soberly. "Probably. Bad way to go, that. Especially for him."

Tyrion agreed. He had never liked the Hound, per se, but dying in a fire was something he wouldn't have wished on his worst enemy. Not even Cersei.

"What are you going to do about the girl?" Bronn asked.

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not sure. Frankly, it's a miracle she's survived this long."

"Aye, there's been no chance for your sister's goons to grab her. She hasn't set a pretty Northern toe outside the Black Cells since she went in. Not even for off-site jobs. Almost like she's in prison," he added facetiously.

Tyrion reached for his glass. Rich amber liquid undulated along the sides as he rested it in his palm. "Well, whatever degree of safety it bought Sansa, I don't think it will last much longer. Cersei can't afford to draw this out any longer. If a slow, painful death in an abandoned warehouse somewhere is what Cersei was hoping for, she may have to settle for quick and dirty instead."

Bronn looked him straight on. "You think she's already got someone on the inside."

"I'd bet my life on it."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure how much I _can_ do." Tyrion gulped the last of the Cognac and hissed as it went down. The brilliant blue of Ned and Catelyn Stark's daughter haunted him when he remembered how she was that first night, seated at the corner of the table next to Joffrey, huddling close as they spoke with each other. Her bright smile. The occasional laugh. Joffrey could be charming when he wanted to. Tyrion just wished he had thought to warn her.

He owed Sansa Stark a debt, and a Lannister always pays his debts.

"Give me a few hours," he said, determined. "I need to make a few phone calls."


	7. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some major life upheavals and a near fatal case of writer's block, this is me trying to claw my way back. Thanks to my girls, kickstand75 and jennilynn411 for all your support. You're the best!

 

 

******December 23, 2013**

**Early a.m.**

  
  
Sansa began to stir at the sound of tires crunching against gravel, the previously steady hum of the engine quieter as the car slowed and eventually came to a stop. There was shuffling next to her, a large body maneuvering in too small a space. 

Sansa swallowed, dry, the taste of iron bitter in her mouth. 

Her head. Gods, her head. 

Her face was throbbing and heavy, but she managed to open her eyes just a little. Sandor shifted and moved around the seats while he rummaged around in the back. Then, he leaned over her and reached under the passenger’s seat. 

He was close, hovering, stuffing cash into his pocket with one hand. He had a gun in the other. 

Noticing the movement, his smoky gaze leveled on her as he tucked the weapon into the small of his back. 

“I’ll be back in a minute, little bird,” Sandor rasped, clearly not expecting an answer. Sansa wasn’t sure she could have given him one. Her vision tilted and swayed, as if her eyes were rolling loose in her head. Thoughts, like marbles, went spilling all over her consciousness.

Hurt … hurt …  

“Just stay here. Don’t. Move.”

Don’t move. Don’t move don’t move don’t move …

_ “Sansa … shit! Don't move. Just let me―” _

_ “No ... no, please. Let me go … Let me go!” _

As Sansa’s thoughts tumbled, he pulled the hood of his sweater up over his head and climbed out of the car, adjusting his jacket to cover the telltale bulge of the gun. He glanced across at her again, frowning with concern, before he shut the door. With the remote, he clicked the locks behind him. 

The sudden silence was deafening. 

Sansa’s eyes fluttered. Weighed too much. 

Dark … dark … 

She swallowed again, and there was only blood and sandpaper. 

Sansa preferred the dark.

  
  


ooooOoooo

  
  


“C’mon, little bird, wake up. Drink this down.” 

A large hand at the back of her neck held her firmly in place. Sansa coughed and sputtered as moisture burned her throat and an overpowering smell singed her nasal passages. 

“Careful now. Don’t want to jostle those ribs by coughing it all up.”

Sansa wrested her eyelids open, her blue eyes grasping for focus. 

Sandor’s twisted scowl lessened some at seeing a response, and he started in with coaxing her to swallow some pills. “All they had was aspirin. Like throwing a rock at a fucking bazooka, but at least if you can get some of this down, you won’t care so much about the pain.” 

Sansa obediently choked down what she could, which—to Sandor’s clear frustration—wasn’t much more. He took a few long pulls off the bottle himself before twisting the cap shut and tossing it in the backseat. 

Dornish Red Label Whisky. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa smiled. 

She should’ve known. 

“Sansa.”

She blinked, absent, too tired hold up her head. A curious tingling built in her fingers and toes. Warmth curled in her belly, a far cry from the frosty night air outside. She breathed in and out, halting, painful twinges in her side. Her eyelids started to droop.  

“Sansa,” Sandor tried again. 

No response.

“Shit, girl,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t do this.” 

The car’s little dome light shone within the small space. Beams broke over his shoulder and shattered into a million pieces. They sparkled against the windows. 

The glass … all that glass … 

Rough hands carefully enveloped her face, and Sansa found herself staring up at him as she spiraled into nothingness. A flood of images buffeted her on her way down, softened by darkness and ash. Joffrey following her upstairs into a dark room. Shouting. Raving. Hitting her. Beating her. 

All that glass … It was everywhere.

Sansa fell away to the echoes of her own screams. 

They sounded like someone else. 

  
  
  


 

 

 


	8. Sansa

 

 

**December 24, 2013**

**Late p.m.**

 

The sign above the gas station read Sevenstream Stop-In.

It came to her slowly, words coming in small, unsteady lines drawn across her mind. Red neon with lights of a convenience store underneath. Black everywhere else. She had been looking at them for ages it felt like, but the images were only now starting to make sense.

It was nighttime. Dark, though the overhead lights were hurting her eyes.

Glaring white lights streamed into the car from the gas station's big overhead canopy that made her eyes, her face, her skin, absolutely every molecule of her it touched ache. But, with considerable effort, she blinked past it and peered out the window.

Snow.

It wasn't much, but it was a thought. Small yet clear. It might have been the first thought she'd ever had. They were parked at the far end of the lot, and a steady snowfall drifted down out of a black, starless sky. Fat flakes. Fluffy white pillows. Nearby, with only the odd light in the distance.

Drowning in a sea of numbness and lethargy, Sansa swallowed. Her tongue tentatively wet her lips. It had been two years since she had seen snow.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she woozily turned her head to meet his eyes.

Burnt ash. Always ash.

Snow and ash.

Sandor's mouth moved, his gaze steady on her while she followed his lips with all the finesse of a downed sparrow in a muddy field. He said her name. The shape of his mouth was right, but his voice, normally deep and resonant, had a strange muffled quality to it, like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel. Not understanding, Sansa very slowly looked away and was taken aback to find a sandwich in her hand. Two sad pieces of bread with a slice of turkey and cheese jammed between them hung limply between her fingers, and she didn't know what to do with it.

" … been two days, girl. You've got to eat something," Sandor said, his voice coming in a little clearer. Huffing, he reached out and nudged her hand, pushing the sandwich toward her. It was clearly not for the first time.

Worried about what that meant, Sansa glanced around her surroundings, searching for something, anything that might help her recall what had happened. She saw a pillow wedged up against her door, an old, tattered blanket sagging over her lap. Her clothes were ripped and bloody, and there was a large bandage wrapped tight around her arm, a red-stained pad of gauze and visible beneath the wrapping. Breathing fast, she caught a brief glimpse of her face in the mirror and blinked back hot tears.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sandor said quickly, before firmly grasping her chin. He looked her squarely in the eyes. "Calm down. You're alright, little bird."

She believed him, and her breaths gradually evened. As they did, his grip slowly eased until he gave a small nod of approval, his expression grim.

"At least, you're awake. I wasn't sure for a while there … I thought ..." Letting whatever it was he wanted to say fall away, Sandor's mouth settled into a firm scowl. His assessing gaze steamrolled her over. "You're alright now, little bird. You hear me? That fucker's never going to touch you again. You understand?"

Joffrey.

Sansa stared vacantly at her lap, her right hand curling into the folds of the blanket.

Joffrey was dead. Sandor had saved her.

Oh, gods.

Oh, gods. Sandor.

"Sansa?" Sandor's earnest tone stopped her from sliding headlong into a raging flood of guilt and blind panic. She lifted her eyes away from her shaking hands, from where she was probably, stupidly, squashing the sandwich without a thought.

His expression had gone from scorching to concerned, and it held her in place. She stared across at his uneasy frown.

"Sansa," he rumbled, clear and concise, "do you understand me?"

Then, she did.

More aware than ever of the latent throbbing in her head, Sansa managed a halting nod. She didn't know whether he was pleased with her answer or not, as if he was uncertain whether to believe her. Pursing his lips, he finally glanced over his shoulder and turned back with an exhale.

"Alright," he grumbled, returning swiftly to the harsh tone she recognized most. "Eat."

He plunked a bottle of water down next to her, and the conversation was apparently over. For Sansa, however, one look at the sad excuse for a sandwich was more than enough. She didn't want to eat. She was so sore, the mere thought of it hurt.

"W—" she tried, wincing as she formed the words around several cuts and a face full of bruises. "W-what … happened to the truck?"

Instead of his beloved black truck, Sandor was crammed behind the wheel of a dinky white sedan as he wolfed down a sandwich of his own, a bag of chips, chasing it with a shot of Dornish whisky taken straight from the bottle. As soon as she spoke, though, he went still.

He looked at her as if she hadn't spoken in days. Maybe she hadn't.

"You don't remember?"

Sansa thought for a moment, then shook her head.

Sandor's lips went tight across teeth, and a muscle in his jaw flexed. "I left it with a friend. People in our line of work sometimes have to cut and run at a moment's notice, so he has a place off the grid, outside the city. We stopped there last night," he said, pausing as if she should remember. Sansa began to wonder how long she had been awake. Awake without once responding to him. Or had she? No. His earlier reaction suggested she hadn't.

"Anyway," he continued, "we stopped, got you patched up as good as I could, and left it there. It's a custom job. Too dangerous to be driving it around. This piece of shit, though ..." He looked with disdain across the dashboard. "The Palfrey's one of the most common models on the road. Cops'll take one look at it and look the other way, so long as we don't give them a reason to do otherwise."

Sansa nodded, realizing for the first time that they were on the run. That Joffrey's family and the police would be looking for them, and they had nowhere to go.

A ribbon of fear shivered down her spine. "W-what are we going to do?"

Sandor was silent. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his face meshed in thought. When he replied, his voice was flat and dark. "Not much to do. Best keep moving."

He threw his empty sandwich wrapper into the back, where a large navy duffle bag Sansa hadn't previously noticed was shoved behind his seat. A brief flash of memory came to her of Sandor in a dusty living room and an open closet, wood panel walls, and Sandor kneeling as he hurriedly shoved things into it—a stash of guns, cash, and IDs. A green kerosene lamp burned on a nearby table.

Sandor turned the key in the ignition and the engine hummed to life. He flipped on the headlights and pulled to the edge of the parking lot.

"Keep your head down," he rasped, gently maneuvering her back to the pillow. Sansa ribs twinged, but quickly settled.

Then, he pulled onto the road and into the falling snow.


End file.
